


Debaser

by SeriouslyBella (BellaFuckingRockwell)



Series: 10 Songfics Challenge - House [4]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon Dialogue, Episode: s01e20 Love Hurts, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Self-Hatred, Sex Addiction, Unrequited Love, logistical canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-31 19:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21151316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellaFuckingRockwell/pseuds/SeriouslyBella
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR OTHERWISE INTERACT WITH MY CONTENT IF YOURE UNDER 18.Doing the 10 songfics challenge again, this time in the House verse. I put my playlist on shuffle and write a short fic for the first ten songs that come up.Song 8: The Pixies - DebaserSummary: A reimagining of what happened during and after House and Cameron's date in season one.This is a little dark, please heed the tags.





	Debaser

It had been a nice enough date. Nice enough restaurant, nice enough food.

Too nice a woman.

House holds the glass tumbler to his lips, letting the bourbon coat his tongue. Weeks of this saga, weeks of back and forth; pulling her in, pushing her back, watching her quit, begging her to take her job back. Getting dressed up for a date he was maybe even looking forward to a bit, amidst the odd burst of nervous excitement, like a teenager going to meet a girl at a diner. There he'd been, seeking advice from Wilson and Cuddy. Grumbling about needing to make conversation and wanting to cancel, but not really meaning it. Not when this could be a chance at something. A chance he'd lost hope at having with the person he really wanted.

She'd looked incredible; not that she'd need to make much of an effort to do that, but that's who Cameron is. A woman who could easily coast through life on her looks alone, and yet she always tries so hard. Laughing at his jokes. Telling him he looked handsome. Wearing her mother's earrings. Nothing she needed to do – but did anyway.

It made him uncomfortable. 

Nobody would ever believe that he didn't want to sabotage it. But as she gave him that sad puppy look at his compliments and declared, “I don't want you to be someone that you're not,” all he could think was, why?

Someone he wasn't, would relax into his chair and enjoy how pretty her eyes were. Someone he wasn't, would ask for the Dreams, Hopes and Aspirations bundle that Wilson was so insistent she'd want to talk about. Someone he wasn't, would actually listen. Be interested. Then again, someone he wasn't might not have a bum leg, a problem with Vicodin and a comfortable relationship with misery.

The warmth slowly drained from her face as eyes met across the table, then darted anywhere else. He liked silences usually; whether they were comfortable ones on the couch with Wilson, or the type that he forced on others when their idiocy demanded it just so he could watch them squirm. 

He didn't like this silence. 

It hit him like a diagnosis, clues snowballing until the answer presented itself with a cry of "duh, obviously!" He should have seen it; couldn't go through with this. Not when this was less of a date to Cameron and more her way of indulging her fetish. Not when the realisation twisted between his ribs like a scalpel.

Cameron put down her menu then started babbling about Freud. He'd deduced, “I treat you like garbage, so I must really like you?”

Then she was smiling again. The hopeful thrust of her nod made him queasy. She denied, without being asked, that she wanted to talk about wines or whatever passed for first date conversation these days. Insisted that he “liked” her too, like they were in the eighth grade.

Had he ever? As he asked her if there was anything that would convince her otherwise, he really chewed over his first question. Had he really been excited about her tonight, because she was her, or because she was merely someone? Someone that might be a distraction from Wilson for the evening? Someone he could use to re-programme himself, overwrite what he felt for his best friend, like it was never there in the first place?

Of course this was never about Cameron. For her, it was never really about him either.

Her jugular was big, throbbing, on her sleeve with her heart. Easy target. Begging to be pierced.

He stared at the bread basket on the table between them. “You live under the delusion that you can fix everything that isn't perfect. That's why you married a man who was dying of cancer. You don't love. You need.” 

He watched the spark fade from her eyes; watched the hope she was almost certain of from the moment he agreed to a date with her disintegrate. He felt indifferent. He'd worked out what this was, and now he was just sharing his knowledge. It was his job, after all, to teach her.

“And now your husband is dead,” he continued, “you're looking for your new charity case. That's why you're going out with me. I'm twice your age, I'm not great looking, I'm not charming. I'm not even nice.”

The gloss on her lips shone in the ambient lighting as they parted, as if she was going to interject. But how could she? What could she possibly say to argue that he wasn't completely correct?

“What I am, is what you need. I'm damaged.”

_Damaged._

The word lingers on his brain, digging and burrowing, as he pours another drink. A lot of empty bottles in the trash this week. 

He hadn't wanted to look at her as he casually returned to the menu; hadn't wanted to watch her eyes fog over, see the look on her face as she quietly excused herself to the bathroom. He'd always found a barrier he couldn't explain to his own emotions – well, unless the bullcrap he'd picked up on his psych rotation had any merit whatsoever, which it didn't – but he was pretty sure he was angry. He was pretty sure Cameron knew that, too, from the way she didn't attempt any further conversation as they made a show of continuing the date. He picked up the cheque as she grabbed her bag and mumbled something about a cab waiting. She didn't even say goodbye.

He isn't sure what drove him to that drawer in his cabinet when he got home, the one with the titles he doesn't display on the shelf. The TV is on mute; he doesn't really like the noises they make, so exaggerated, so false. Not that any of it is realistic. The girl on the screen, the milky whites of her eyes more visible than her pupils, has her mouth wide open, skin on her face bunched into rolls against the pillow. The camera pans out, revealing an apeish, hairy hand buried in blonde hair a few shades too light against her fake tan. The man fucking her has a sunburnt chest, and makes some of the ugliest faces he's ever seen, and when he says something House is glad he can't hear it, can't lipread. It isn't even slightly erotic, it's disgusting, crude, animal, one of the most tasteless titles he owns, but Lesbian Sleepover Sluts 3 isn't really cutting it anymore. He palms his cock through his pants, feeling the slight bulge forming.

As clumsy, drunk fingers fumble around with his zipper, he tries to push the images of the evening out of his mind. Wilson, lying on his couch, asking if he wanted condoms laced with antibiotics. Cameron's eyes lighting up when he appeared, not with excitement, but with relief, like she'd barely dared to hope he'd even show up. The lights are off and the TV gives the room a white hue, his shadow a taunting mimic behind him as he engulfs his cock in his hand. He exhales through teeth clamping into his bottom lip, trying to lose himself in silicone breasts and rough hands. Trying to convince himself he can get off to this. Trying to deny that no matter what he watches, the same images will creep into his head eventually.

Wilson, that very first night in New Orleans when they were hammered and he was grieving his marriage and they'd kissed at his hotel room; something that had only happened because Wilson thought he'd never see him again. The repeat three years later, again after a boozy evening, only this time they'd been on Wilson's couch whilst Wife Number Whatever was out working late, and Wilson had let him stroke him through his pants until he'd cum with a shuddering gasp against House's neck. The way they'd shrugged it all off as a big laugh and not made eye contact for a month. Signed an unspoken contract to never speak of it again.

So House has to fill in the blanks. As he pumps his cock, eyes closing as the display on the screen begins to make him nauseous, he conjures an image of being on his knees for Wilson, taking him into his throat as his best friend gasps and runs an encouraging hand through his hair. Tipping back his head as Wilson kisses his throat and unbuttons his shirt, breathing hard, clumsy in his haste, aching for him. Wilson's arms around his neck, legs spread over his hips, pulling him in for a sloppy, open mouthed kiss as House enters him slowly, savouring him, taking him, worshipping him. 

House arches his hips as he cums into his hand with a single grunt, rigid and panting at the force of orgasm. It's not enjoyable, not really; a few seconds of white hot bliss and then that's that, it's done, and everything's the same. He used to at least feel a sense of calm afterwards, even if it was fleeting, elusive. Now, as he opens his eyes and reaches for the ward of tissues nearby, and the grotesque pictures leer at him from the TV, he feels disgusting.

The moment he crushed Cameron edges its way back into his mind's eye. It served her right. Then why does it feel so heavy? Why, instead of feeling vindicated, does he feel the urge to focus on the screen again, trying and failing to prove to himself that he doesn't need to think of Wilson, tugging at his limp cock until it's raw? Until he's gritting his teeth with pain, barely noticing the weak climax announcing its presence with a mere dribble over his fingers? Why the squeeze of panic when he notices that the bourbon bottle is almost empty?

Cameron is probably handling this differently. He can picture her crying on her couch, emotionally defecating into the ear of a patient friend over the phone. Wilson's probably sleeping, and even if he isn't, he'll be skimming through an oncology journal, completely sober and not fantasising about fucking House. In fact, everyone else he knows is probably doing something appropriate.

So House does what's appropriate for him: stops to puke in the bathroom before diving into bed, fully clothed, and soothing himself to sleep by imagining Wilson's arms wrapped around him in the dark.


End file.
